


Alone, Together

by beeyouteaful



Category: Mission: Impossible (Movies)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Espionage, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, POV Second Person, Romance, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-28 09:13:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30137286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beeyouteaful/pseuds/beeyouteaful
Summary: You wake in the middle of the night before August is meant to come home to find yourself alone, as expected. Or are you?
Relationships: August Walker (Mission: Impossible)/Reader, August Walker/You, Henry Cavill/Reader
Comments: 1
Kudos: 10





	Alone, Together

**Author's Note:**

> This was born of the sheer fact that I watched Mission: Impossible - Fallout for the first time yesterday, and all I can think about afterwards is August Walker.
> 
> (^▽^;)

A strangled _mm_ escapes your throat as your bones creak under the weight of interrupted sleep and the dark. Before you even open your eyes, it’s clear that it’s late—the inside of your eyelids not yet burning against the morning light of the sun. As you roll onto your back to stretch your spine, the night sky glows, however dimly, through the window pane. If you had to guess, you’d say it’s about 5 in the morning, but you don’t reach for your phone—knowing the time will only make it more difficult to fall back asleep.

Letting a limp arm fall back against the countless pillows with knuckles rested by your cheek—as if it were the arm of a spent duchess after a long day in court—you gaze aimlessly out the window at the bare tree tops.

You are alone. It’s always clear, even before you reach to the other side of the bed, that his weight isn’t present. A woman just knows.

Still, the hairs on the back of your neck can’t help but stand alert as your chest aches in that ultra-specific way, feeling somehow that you are, in fact, _not alone_.

You don’t call for him. He comes when he realizes you’re not just shifting in your sleep. Even if you squint, you can’t make out his enormous shape as he rises from the corner armchair. Actually, you can barely even hear the floorboards creak beneath his calculated steps over the white noise of your box fan.

He towers over the bed. You’re constantly surprised he can even stand up straight with such low ceilings. Calloused fingertips slip over the palm beside your head and lock between your own digits. A sleepy smile graces your lips as the mattress edge dips with the weight of his tree trunk thigh.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” is all he says, his voice not so much rough and commanding as one would anticipate from such a burly man, but instead a soft rumble. You kiss his hand.

“Y’didn’t.” It’s true. You woke naturally. It happens almost every time, especially when you’re expecting him.

He is invisible—a silhouette backlit by the window. You long to take in his features, no doubt exhausted and pale, but to turn on the bedside lamp would be to shatter the fragile night that surrounds you. So, you picture him to yourself. You piece him together from every memory: His square, sturdy jaw and beautiful, cleft chin hidden beneath cropped stubble. His marble-carved lips clothed by a moustache that shouldn’t work on him, but it _does_ somehow. A strong nose, slightly crooked at the bridge. The kindest blue eyes you’ve ever seen under bold brows. Soft, loose curls at the top of his head, sweeping to the right side of his masculine forehead. You want to yank him down to see him properly.

Instead, you balance your weight on your free arm and sit up. Your oversized tourist-dad t-shirt—from one of several beach trips he’d gifted you—soothes your tired skin. In truth, you had worn it to surprise him; not that you didn’t wear oversized t-shirts most of the time, but he did so love when you _only_ wore an oversized t-shirt.

“August,” you begin on an exhale. It’s as if you’re finally able to breathe again.

He squeezes your hand. “I’m here, princess.”

His pet name warms your cheeks. You never thought you would love being called something so basic and, frankly, most-times demeaning, especially from a man who looks like the blueprint for the _50 Shades_ type. You are _not_ a child, and you aren’t someone’s kinky sexual conquest either. 

However, he means it, _every time_ , with such sweet earnestness; when he calls you _princess_ , he really says _I would burn the entire world for you._

His fingers continue to trace your palm as you blink the remnants of sleep from your eyes.

“How long?”

“’Til Monday.”

“A whole weekend?” you ask, delighted. He hums in affirmation.

August never talks about work around you. It’s best this way. You don’t know exactly what he does, but there are three things you do: you know it’s dangerous, you know he’s probably _not_ the good guy, and you know you’re not supposed to know about it. 

Having a farmhouse in the middle of nowhere is a little telling, though.

You shift toward him on your knees and wrap your arms around his beefy neck. His entire body melts into you, probably relaxing for the first time in days. Wiry moustache hairs tickle the skin of your neck as he presses his face there.

“I’m so glad you’re home.”

His only response is a kiss to your shoulder and a nuzzle of his nose. You can’t begin to describe how much you needed this.

He takes care of you, so you should be happy. You _are_ happy. But not knowing where he is for—at times—weeks on end can age someone a bit faster. It frazzles your nerves. You know he will always keep you safe, but what about himself? At what point of waiting for him to come home do you give up hope? So, you pull him a little tighter to you.

“I love you so much,” he tells you, as if he knows you need to hear it. _So perceptive_. But you know he doesn’t find the words adequate. He never has. His fingers scramble to find solace in your shirt. He can’t let go. If he lets go, he fears all the imagined inadequacy will drive you away, and you know it, so you stay right where he needs you. He inhales deeply while his nose is hidden in your hair.

“August…” you reply, the entire weight of your world in two syllables. “Come to bed.”

He nods once, a smile on his face that you can’t see over your shoulder. When he finally pulls back, you can make out his eyes glinting in the dark. He is beautiful. He is lovely. He is yours.

You squirm across the mattress and snuggle into your place. He undresses down to his boxers and climbs in next to you beneath the covers. His broad chest and shoulders cradle your head so naturally. Your leg thrown over his has comforted you both time and time again. You fit together like the clichéd puzzle pieces everyone always talks about. That’s how you know you were meant for each other, regardless of how hard it is, at times, to be together.

He exhales, and your left side shifts as his firm chest falls. He smells of everything you could ever desire and more. How you’d found each other was as much a miracle as immaculate conception, and you would do everything in your power to protect what you have, just as he would.

For now, that means letting him hold you as you drift back to sleep in the early morning hours. It’s Friday, the start of the weekend—your weekend with August. A smile graces your lips as you feel his breathing slow, and you press a kiss to his shoulder.

“Sleep, princess,” he mumbles as he pulls you closer. And you do.


End file.
